


I’ll Let You Know

by hellhoundsprey



Series: spn kink bingo 2020 [21]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Dean Smith, Alpha Sam Winchester, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Normal Life, Barebacking, Bondage, Bottom Sam wesson, Collars, Dirty Talk, Dom Dean Smith, Double Penetration, Humiliation, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Master/Slave, Oral Fixation, Praise Kink, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sexual Roleplay, Spanking, Sub Sam Wesson, Top Dean Smith, Trans Character, Trans Sam Wesson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:14:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25568065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: Wesson and his boss connect after hours.spn kink bingo square 21: master/slave
Relationships: Dean Smith/Sam Wesson
Series: spn kink bingo 2020 [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1602964
Comments: 12
Kudos: 81
Collections: SPN Kink Bingo 2020





	I’ll Let You Know

**Author's Note:**

> Concerning anatomy, please refer to [this cool graphic I made (NSFW)](https://hellhoundsprey.tumblr.com/post/154223082799/abo-anatomy-how-i-imagine-it).

“Wait.”

Sam’s eyes pop wide; he looks up.

Dean stares right back. “You’re serious.”

“Uhm. Yeah?” He keeps holding onto Dean’s fly—frozen mid-zip and desperate.

Maybe the whole dropping right to his knees thing was a bit…much.

Dean murmurs, “Jesus,” and Sam’s cheeks heat further.

“Is, uhm—is it too much, or? We can go slow, if…”

Sam’s blabbering loses itself in that grip in his hair, upon Dean pressing him face-first to his crotch.

Sam hopes the alpha can’t feel him inhaling.

Murmurs, “You’re sure?” and Dean replies by firming his grip, and that’s that.

Sam gives the most loving, most worshipping kiss. Tilts his head to feel out the size of Dean’s cock, figure out how to do this hands-free. Slides his palms further down Dean’s thighs and fuck he’s firm, so fucking _fit_ all over and Sam’s gonna get a taste of that now, he _will_.

He’s been pining long enough.

The alpha above him gives a faint, soft sound. Encourages Sam and humbles him altogether, and Sam peers up again. Dean’s got his eyes closed, got his head tipped back. Nobody should be allowed to look this gorgeous, especially not from this unflattering angle, but here they are.

Sam can be gentle, if he wants. Can be careful as he uses his teeth to peel back Calvin Kleins in the limited space the gap of Dean’s fly provides him with—can thread that cock free. He’s only sweating a little bit.

He gets Dean’s eyes back, a barely-drop of that jaw, and Sam meets him right there. Slides his lips along the heated, smooth shaft, and his mouth waters, and Dean said it’s okay, right? So, he takes him into his mouth, and it’s not all the way hard yet but obviously going there.

Honestly, it’s a satisfying size as is. A shower, maybe.

Sam’s eyes slide shut as he hums—at peace, relieved; finally.

Yeah, definitely enough fucking pining.

“That’s what you need?” Sam hums in agreement but Dean talks right over it. “Some nice fat alpha cock in that pretty mouth of yours, huh?”

Jesus Christ.

Sam wants to agree out loud but can’t bring himself to stop sucking Dean’s cock. Judging by the amount of adoration in the alpha’s chuckle, t’was the right choice.

“So fucking needy you can’t even take your mouth off it.” He pets Sam’s head. “Good, good.”

Under the caress, Sam lengthens his spine.

Hears, “You want me to treat you like an O, or?”

“No.” Sam laps at the (increasingly swollen) head of Dean’s dick in between words. Slurs, “I mean, if you don’t mind, uhm—tease…me? For—”

“For being a fucking knot-hungry alpha?”

“Yeah.” God, he’s gonna ruin these pants, isn’t he? “Yeah, that, uh… _that_.”

Dean croons, “Can do,” and broadens his stand, puts his free hand down on the table in his back to steady himself. “Anything else?”

“Alphabetical, or?”

Dean laughs. “You’ve been planning this, haven’t you?” and Sam offers a muffled hum, because, yeah, he has, and yeah, just— _yeah_.

Sam’s senses whip him around like a dog. Their pheromones should eject each other like the same side of two separate magnets, alpha and alpha like they are, and they _do_ , but…it’s fucking amazing. Electrifying. Makes the hairs in the back of his neck stand, makes him alert and dizzy, and.

Fuck, he’s gonna burst through his pants any minute now.

“Been thinking about this, too? You, sucking my cock?”

Sam agrees with his mouth full.

“Huh, funny.” Scratches to Sam’s scalp. God, he’s flying. “Makes two of us.”

Sam comes up for air and that, “Fuck me,” and Dean’s fist tears at his hair harder, clenches tight and it hurts and God it’s so good, and Sam hadn’t noticed how his hands migrated to his own thighs, that they’re fanned out and good-boy poised. Dean plunges back into his mouth, down his throat, and Sam gags with as much love as he can muster.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll fuck you all right.”

Sam swallows with balls kissing his chin.

Tight, unquestioning, “You’ve done this before,” and Sam’s pride fires off, and his cock leaks against the zipper of his khakis.

Dean pulls out of his esophagus so painfully slow Sam’s gotta surge full-body to keep his late lunch down.

“I don’t mind,” explains Smith. “You clean though, right?”

Sam nods, lets Dean wipe at his tears with one hand, slap his cock against his cheek with the other while he gathers his composure, his humanity. Croaks, “Yeah, got the…I got tests an’ all, ’s on my phone, if you…”

Pubes up against Sam’s nose.

He holds onto Dean’s thighs like this is a slow dance and he’s a horny high schooler all over again.

“Worst sluts are usually clean,” shares Smith, somewhere above, while Sam Wesson’s brain slowly but surely dissolves into a pleasant, warm puddle of nothing.

He’s been off the charts most of his life. Always the exception, the surprise. Oh, you—what? Oh. Uh, how does _that_ work?

Alpha, beta, omega—Sam’s not picky. Doesn’t mind either which way, but with alphas it’s usually the most challenging, the most complicated. Easier that he prefers to be the mountée over getting his dick wet, but fuck, the issues most As still have nevertheless…!

Power-tripping chauvinistic pricks.

Smith’s no different, of course. Part of what makes all this so hot.

But when your alpha boss looks at you like that, there’s no mistaking. Evens out the power imbalance of those couple of hundred grands a year, or at least that’s a nice lie to tell himself if he’ll ever happen to need it.

“Take those fucking clothes off. If I have to look at that goddamn shirt for one more minute, I’m gonna get a fucking migraine.”

Sam’s more than happy to oblige. (Even though it _is_ kinda hot, the thought of Smith reaming him out in his minimum wage job uniform he’ll have to sit through another nine to five two days and three nights from now. But, alas. Maybe later.) Strips where he’s kneeling, and getting out of his pants may not look too graceful but oh, well. Smith watches him huffing, watches him puffing his chest out and tossing his hair out of his face like a wet dog.

Measured, observing: “You weren’t lying.”

Sam agrees, “No,” and feels the pinprick stabs of goosebumps up his spine, into his cock, upon Smith nudging against the inside of his knee, prompting him to spread wider, put himself on display like some slab of meat.

Sam’s heart pounds him stupid.

“Why the fuck would I lie about something like that?”

“Just didn’t expect it, I guess.”

Wary, “Is it a problem, or?” and Dean is immediate with his, “No, lord, absolutely not. Look at you—so fucking gorgeous.”

Talks soft, almost gentle, with the elongated tip of his leather shoe bumping into the inside of Sam’s thigh, the underside of his cock and behind.

“You get wet?”

Sam shakes his head.

“No problem. There’s literally so much lube in this house.”

Sam chuckles. “Good.”

“Okay if I touch here?” and Sam nods, smiling, encouraging, and Dean’s expression morphs back into nasty, into that devilish smug little smirk of his. “Really going all in, aren’t you?”

“Fuck yeah.” Sam swallows, feels his mind emptying nice with the unusual attention to his labia, let alone it being distributed by leather. “Yeah, I’m—I meant it. What I said. All of it.”

“You shouldn’t go around trusting people like that, Sam Wesson,” hums Dean Smith, and he steps closer, just a little, just enough that Sam allows himself to grind down on that shoe without immediate fear of losing the privilege of getting it in the first place. “The world is a bad fucking place, you know.”

“Who said I trust you?” and it’s a breeze of a sentence and he smirks on it, despite the inevitable withdraw of Smith’s foot, and he looks up, pleased, lets his head roll to his shoulder. Still on the floor, naked, with his boss stroking his cock inches from his face.

Smith smiles, too. “Just fun, right?”

“All the fucking fun, man.”

“Fuck, I like you.”

“Can we stop the sweet talk now, please?”

“Why, does it get you all fuzzy inside?”

“Gets my fucking dick soft, asshole.”

“Not like we need it, do we?” and Dean’s stepped back in front of him, one hand back into Sam’s hair and yeah, God, finally.

Dean fucks his face until there’s spit stringing from Sam’s chin. Until Dean’s pants are ruined, probably, and the only clear hilarious thought in Sam’s dick-drunk brain is that Smith might slip him the dry cleaner bill for that.

“So, I own you? ’S that it? That’s the gist?” Dean pants, slurs; strokes himself while Sam fishmouths for air, hacks up all the cock slime he got fucked from his throat. “Everything? Paid you off and collared you like a fucking bitch?” and Sam groans, loud and unashamed, and Dean laughs at him for that, slaps him across the face with his cock again. “Yeah, that’s what you want. Being my little toy on hands and knees. Make you fucking crawl on the floor, let me use you whenever I feel like it. Isn’t that right?”

Sam pants, nods, frantic; arms behind him to steady him, knees splayed wide and Dean ignores how fucking hard he is, how fucking drooling from the tip and it’s good, so fucking good— _more_.

“Think I got a spare one, actually; hold on.”

Oh, Jesus fuck. Of course he does, the prick.

Sam waits, caught in his forced patience, making heart-eyes to where Smith disappeared to after one more rough ruffle through Sam’s hair; bedroom, probably. Got a nice place, the fucking rich asshole pig, complete with the fucking Tesla in the driveway, the untouched Van der Westen Speedster on the kitchen counter.

Returns with something thick and heavy looking, and Sam bears his throat without thinking.

Dean fastens the thing around his neck with a low, demeaning chuckle. “Like it’s all you ever needed,” and Sam opens his mouth for a rebuke but Smith pulls all strict until the buckle settles one hole almost-too-tight and fuck, yeah, okay, this is fine, it’s real fucking fine. “Too tight?” Sam shakes his head, eyes nearly slotted shut.

Smith pats him on the cheek, and Sam loves that he can’t swallow without effort. His mouth floods all anew.

Dean’s hand still skirts around his head, thumbs at his mouth, rakes into his hair.

“Okay if I tie you up, pretty thing?”

“Fuck,” groans Sam, “why’re you business dicks always so fucking kinky?”

Dean educates, flatly, “It’s the coke,” and, “That a yes, huh?”

“Fuck, yeah; all of it, come _on_. Whatever you want, stop fucking _asking_ …”

“I’ll ask as much as I fucking want,” and that’s a warning if Sam ever heard one, and he slots his eyes upwards, still drifting and dreamy with his throat all used and tight, and he hadn’t noticed he’s shifted his arms behind his back, wrist in his own hand and he rolls his shoulders further back and down, cranes his neck and hears Dean’s adorning little, “Fuck,” all breathless, only for Sam, _because_ of Sam.

One thumb hooks into the corner of his mouth; the second follows. Sideway-pull at his lips to frog-gape wide and Sam blinks, happy, lets him.

“Got you all to myself now, don’t I,” muses Dean, so fucking dark and maybe it’s the exquisite light situation, designed for maybe exactly this kinda fucked up shit but God he’s the most gorgeous, the best-smelling alpha Sam’s got lucky enough to end up with right fucking here, to his fucking Balenciagas, the halo behind all that gelled-back dirty blond. Dean continues, “Two fucking days,” and Sam wants to say _and three nights_ , and wished it were even more.

Can tell, already, that this is bad. That he’s gonna fall, stupidly, and that it’ll end in a lot of drama and him gaining ten pounds in like three miserable weeks. But that’s a future-Sam problem, and honestly, fuck that guy.

Sam reminds, coarsely, “Rope?” and it doesn’t come out right with his mouth pried open as it is, with Dean’s fingers playing down his tongue, learning the cut of his molars.

But Dean gets it. Warns, “Stay,” and wipes his spit-wet fingers on Sam’s face before he disappears once more. Just for a moment, a beat. “Arms behind your—heh. Okay, okay; you’ve got it.”

Sam hears him squatting down behind him, hears the rope whirring through those unworked, expensive hands. Lets Dean tie him like he wants, like he prefers it, and ends up with his arms stretched out behind him, straight down. Sam flexes against the pressure once it’s settled and done, and something in him shivers nice and deep for how there’s no give, none at all.

“Too tight?”

Sam shakes his head.

“Good.”

Smith gets up. Gets a hold of what Sam didn’t recognize was a leash until he clicks it to the collar and yanks at it, hard.

“Get the fuck up.”

Sam does, as gracefully as he can.

“To the sofa.”

They walk.

Dean takes a moment to pull on the leash once they’re standing in front of the designated furniture, forces Sam to bend backwards, curl him against Dean’s still-clothed chest. Sam’s got a bunch of inches on the guy and takes quiet, wicked notice.

“Where should I start, huh?” and Dean’s available hand dances its fingertips across the hollow of Sam’s throat, down his breastbone. He’s leaning in, effortlessly, to murmur right into Sam’s ear. “Maybe play with these? Maybe plug up your cock and spank your ass until you cry?”

Sam does his best to psycho-transfer his enthusiastic YES, but sticks with devout silence instead. Easy, with Dean’s million-dollar fingertips feathering over his nipples, first, before they pluck at him, tweak at him.

Sam chokes off a noise, so close to Dean’s scent glands and his nostrils flare wide. Smith’s firing off non-stop now, heavy and spiced and violent, and there’s a rut somewhere in the near-distant future, and Sam’s cock drools another fat glob of precome for _that_ idea.

“So fucking wet, aren’t you?” and Sam did never expect that palm to engulf the soaking head of his cock, not in a million years he didn’t, and he gasps, pained, with his hips lurching forward in blind instinct. Dean’s wrist swivels one glorious time before it’s gone again entirely, before Sam whines and gets the meat of that hand to his lips, his mouth, his teeth.

He laps kisses, groans for his own taste.

“Yeah. Yeah, you are, huh? Good fucking bitch.”

Muffled, “Yes, master,” and Dean inquires without missing a beat, “What was that?” and that hand retreats, and Sam is free to tell him, “ _Yes_ , master,” again, and the shove into the back of his neck is immediate.

Sam bends at the hip, like he knows how to.

He’s toned, and he is fucking strong. Not some frail little thing, neither soft nor trembling but just— _big_ , and _burly_ , and he’s aware of that. Works with that, and guys like Smith are into that. Subduing big guys like Sam, that’s a whole different level of dominance.

Dean presses him lower, cheek-first into the armrest of his lord-knows-how-pricey sofa and Sam curls his ass out, of course he does, and Dean hadn’t needed that invitation because his hand is already in there. Slides right along Sam’s gash from tailbone and all the way down and there’s a real alpha growl, right there, and while Sam’s nowhere near to being or even resembling an O but the tears bite at his eyes nonetheless.

“Jesus fucking Christ, you dirty fucking slut.”

Sam hiccups his breath, has to force himself to stay still, not wriggle back into the fingers mapping him out, sliding up and down like, yeah, that’s all his, all of it, and it’s not like they’ve only spoken to each other the first time like, what, three days ago?

“You fucking walk around like that all day? Fucking smooth and bare like a fucking whore, huh, _like a fucking O_?” and Sam yelps for that first hit, wills his hips back further and straightens his knees and, fuck, Smith’s got huge hands.

Huge, wonderful hands.

“You wanna get fucked so bad, you don’t even care, do you?”

“Y-yes, master—”

The hits rain down on his ass in quick and quicker succession and Sam’s eyes squeeze shut, and his skin ripples under the assault, and, holy fucking shit, he’s gonna come all over this fucking sofa.

“Don’t you fucking dare, bitch.”

Sam gets his legs kicked apart, gets to haul in some breath and he’s fucking dizzy with it, with the heat and the pain and his inflamed-feeling skin and Dean’s fucking thumb settling in dry over his asshole in a tight, flush pressure, and he’s just pulsing it there, and Sam sweats anew, and he moans for it.

“Here? Or here?”

Lower, and Sam’s cock jumps against sheer air.

And Smith croons, “All of it’s mine, isn’t it? All of my beautiful fucking holes, right here,” and Sam thinks he’s in very ugly love, and he can’t speak.

Dean bumps his hips forward apparently, because his cockhead smears right up against Sam’s taint. Settles over his hole, that thumb still tucked up against his asshole and Dean tuts as he tests the waters, rubs himself there until Sam’s sticky-wet where he’s usually not. Where he’s tender, and if Dean really… God, he can’t think.

“Say ‘red’ when you need me to stop, or I won’t.”

“H’okay,” babbles Sam, and the click of the cap of a bottle opening sends him someplace new.

He’s gonna cry. Is gonna come all over himself and cry like a baby.

Dean’s cock is back, so fucking wet and cold, and it presses right up against him. Dean purrs, so fucking obviously pleased with the waxing job Sam’s regular girl did for him last night, after those texts and Sam freaking out. Slips his thumb down, past Sam’s asshole and inside Sam’s cunt, and Sam clenches on blind instinct.

“Jesus, fuck.” Dean’s positively gone. Flexes his thumb, buried all the way, his remaining fingers spanned wide, spreading Sam’s cheeks. Dean pulls his thumb out just to push it up Sam’s ass, next, and Sam’s not done recovering from that by the time Dean slides his cock up his cunt like it’s nothing, like yeah this is his to use and God it is, and Sam wants, he _needs_.

Dean’s so fucking fat and wide and Sam whimpers for the stretch, for the fucking _impossible_. Whimpers because Dean’s hooking his thumb, presses it down so they can both feel the wall of tissue between where he’s got him stretched in two places, and while Dean’s cock bumps up into him as far as it will go, Sam can tell that he’s not in there all the way, _it doesn’t fucking fit_ , and, frankly, he stops functioning.

Just keeps himself upright, here, in this overpriced shitty-ass condo with his boss bare and gut-deep in him, and there aren’t even balls kissing his taint, and, shit.

He never thought he’d make it past his twenties, but he hadn’t thought he’d go out like this.

“Aw, cute.”

Dean rocks them together; Sam raises onto his toes for the pressure.

“Such a big fucking boy, and yet? Adorable.”

Dean’s thumb retreats; Sam hears him spitting, feels it hitting him right there and how Smith thumbs it straight back in. Shallow thrust of that cock, in the meantime, filling Sam out entirely and he can’t even breathe around it, and it’s not fair.

No thumb but middle and ring instead, more warm spit.

“Good thing we’re flexible, huh?”

Smith works him open, like he has any right. Like Sam’s not well-seasoned and doesn’t know his way around a knot, like that one odd joint and the spontaneous gangbang during frat week never even fucking happened. Like Sam’s tender, a dainty little thing and tight and stupid and doesn’t know better and just lets him, and Sam hears himself whimpering, “Please,” and Smith just tuts at him, pumps his fingers slow and deliberate up his ass while he rolls his hips, one hand on the still-heated red of Sam’s ass cheek.

“Let me in there, pretty thing; c’mon.”

Sam wills himself loose. Wills himself soft and open and Dean supplies more lube, eventually. Rubs three blunt fingers over the slowly-softening ring of his asshole while he fucks himself hard and harder inside of Sam’s cunt, praises, “That’s it,” and Sam hallucinates that he can fucking _feel_ how wet Dean is, how much slick in him ain’t the lube but _alpha_ instead.

Dean pushes his fingers in and _down_.

“You feel me?”

Sam slurs, “Yes,” gets his ass spanked; corrects, “Yes, master,” and he thinks he’s drooling, he thinks he’s ruining this fucking couch right now.

“Bet you fucking do. So fucking tight for me, aren’t you?” and Sam nods, heedless, thoughtless.

Dean pumps his hips stronger, now. Hums all low, one hand settled strict on Sam’s hip to help hauling him back onto his cock while the other pumps into Sam’s ass counter-rhythmic, knuckles and dream-slick, and Dean gives a sigh, a deeply pleased thing that goes straight to the throbbing, ignored line of Sam’s cock, to the clench of his insides.

“Gonna come like that? On my hand and cock, like a good fucking pet? Come on then, c’mon.”

And it’s a trap, probably; must be. But Sam can’t stop it, not much longer, especially not with Dean running his mouth like he does, with him rubbing out all the spots, like he’s got a map to Sam Wesson’s insides or something, and Sam feels himself trembling, feels it approaching.

Tenses, uselessly, and his legs are spread too far apart for his cock to even slap against the inside of his thighs, so it just swings in the air, bobs in time with Dean fucking up into him.

Sam gasps, and he clenches up, and he gasps again and Dean prompts, “Fucking _do_ it,” and there’s the first spurt, plenty and thick and he thinks he hears it hitting the floor, and Dean must have heard it too because he pulls his cock out, tells Sam, “Go on,” and gets his pinkie crammed in next to the others and works his hand something fucking _fierce_ —fucks Sam’s ass harder than some people had with their cocks and Sam yelps caught, fucking _helpless_ , as Dean milks him out and out and out.

Hears, “Fucking dirty little slut,” and maybe Dean spanks his ass again, once or twice; and he pulls his hand back just to hook both of his thumbs in there, hold Sam open to the room, his own sight, maybe; how Sam’s insides throb and pulse all bare because he’s still going, somehow, still ripples with it and Dean spits inside his ass again, hocks it right in there and Sam’s gonna have fucking _rugburn on his face form this sofa_ , Jesus fucking—

“Christ,” gritted, alpha. “Fuck, so fucking hungry for anything. Fucking look at you. Fucking pink all over, all the way down.”

“Fuck me—” Sam gulps. “F-fuckin’—f-fuck me, Jesus fucking, _Dean_ —!”

And Sam gets what he wants, he does.

Has the alpha snarling and forcing himself up his ass, lube and precome easing the way but _the stretch_ , oh fucking God. Sam’s anatomy reminds him that he’s _not_ , in fact, some omega little bitch and is _not_ , under any circumstance, supposed to be bred like this, and Sam struggles for air and composure but he finds neither.

A blackmail-worthy noise worms past Sam Wesson’s teeth.

Dean fastens the leash until Sam’s bowed in the middle. Until he’s sticking his ass so high he’ll break something important and can’t breathe, but there’s the distant scratch of Smith’s pubes up against his tailbone and, yeah, holy fucking shit, okay, okay.

Sam whines as they work it out with joined efforts. Until Dean can grind them truly flush, until the growing slap of skin on skin turns into reality, into background noise. Smith growls, somewhere. Both hands on Sam’s hips and Sam slips out of this realm entirely, is solely his body, solely the channel for that other alpha’s cock, and ‘Sam Wesson’ doesn’t exist.

Dean manhandles him onto the sofa, eventually, face-down, knees wide on the cushions. The position is easier and the angle is deeper, and Sam splutters, caught off-guard, while the alpha pounds him out without restraint (like it’s supposed to be).

“Gonna knot,” warns Smith, very close all of a sudden and there’s no oxygen between them. A harsh hitch to the leash, Sam’s windpipe. Growled, “You want that, huh? My fucking knot up your ass, bitch?”

Sam mouths that three-letter-word into the side of his own mouth, the cushions of Smith’s sofa. Can’t, though, he’ll die, but, yeah, he can _want_.

“Maybe later, huh?” and that shouldn’t feel and sound and taste so sweet, so fucking adorable and loving and Dean’s knot catches already, just started inflating but holy shit it’s just too much, too-big too-everything and Sam feels himself getting pulled inside-out at breakneck speed, and he yelps when Dean holds himself still. Sam tries to hump back and get more, but Dean presses him down with one arm in the back of his neck. Doesn’t pump back into his ass before his knot’s too popped to get in there on accident (or brute force).

Slurred, “Fuck, God,” and, yeah, Sam knows the feeling—watery-drowsy if you don’t tie, like the world melts and you lose your footing, and Dean comes with a deep groan. Grinds his knot up against Sam’s ass and fuck it’s hot, so fucking fat and throbbing and Sam feels every gush rippling through that beautiful cock, how it spits so so fucking deep inside of him. It’s a surprise when it retreats, careful but clearly rushed, and Sam’s moan hits a new depth on Dean slipping back up into his cunt, fills him out all wet and heated and finishes here. Spills so plenty and thick Sam can feel it leaking out, dribbling down his labia and the still-tense exclamation mark of his cock. He can’t remember turning his head, can’t remember craning his neck but they’re kissing, now, Smith and him, and it’s perfect on every plane except the one where his neck muscles are involved, but, fuck, who fucking cares.

Sam exclaims, “Ew,” and Dean’s sweaty, probably-botoxed face crumbles, confused.

“What?”

“Don’t fucking kiss me!”

“I’m still inside you and you complain about some _spit_?”

“I don’t do kisses,” grunts Sam, and lets Smith lap into his mouth some more. Because he doesn’t have much choice, being folded and stuck underneath him and all that.


End file.
